


Gonna try and walk on water

by apreciouspixie



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Church, M/M, Mentions of Violence, or okay maybe it is a bit, this isn't serious i swear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 18:04:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1356922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apreciouspixie/pseuds/apreciouspixie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The lad looks up, his cat-like, glossy blue eyes boring into Harry’s, who cannot help but startle at the intent sadness in them. He’d be lying if he said he doesn’t feel concerned already. </i><br/><i>“My name’s Louis,” he speaks, and Harry startles once more at the sound of his voice. He can’t look at him any longer, so instead he turns his gaze onto their still-connected hands. Louis lets go of Harry, when he notices the man staring, and coughs awkwardly. His palms are noticeably smaller, Harry sees, but Louis himself is noticeably smaller than him, as well.</i><br/>-<br/>or the one where Harry's going to be a parson, and Louis has a secret. They live in a small town in the middle of nowhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gonna try and walk on water

**Author's Note:**

> wow. Thanks a bunch to Pinja as usually, and everyone else. I love you all so fucking much.  
> This took me 300 years and so many Laura Marling songs. The title is from Piledriver Waltz by Alex Turner.

****

They meet on the 24th of December. It’s funny, because it is Harry’s first official day as brother Styles in the village of Affick, it is the beginning of the biggest holiday of the Christian church, and it is Louis’ birthday.

It happens after the service; Harry is standing at the altar with Father Higgins, listening to myriad old ladies tell him how wonderful and lovely his sermon had been and how lucky they are to have him. He thinks that, despite his status, some of them are trying to chat him up.

He’s taken aback, for sure, but then again this whole church is different, to say the least, from what he is used to, but he’s glad it is. It makes him feel a lot more free and closer to the Lord, than those medieval-minded Catholic communities, where every other sentence is about fearing His almighty rage.

Once the flow of ladies has simmered down and Father Higgins has run off somewhere, a young man approaches. He walks closer, holding his hand out warily.  
                “Hello,” he mumbles, peeking at Harry under his lashes. Harry smiles and shakes his hand fondly, trying not to scare him.  
                “Hello, I’m Brother Harry.”

The lad looks up, his cat-like, glossy blue eyes boring into Harry’s, who cannot help but startle at the intent sadness in them. He’d be lying if he said he doesn’t feel concerned already.  
                “My name’s Louis,” he speaks, and Harry startles once more at the sound of his voice. He can’t look at him any longer, so instead he turns his gaze onto their still-connected hands. Louis lets go of Harry, when he notices the man staring, and coughs awkwardly. His palms are noticeably smaller, Harry sees, but Louis himself is noticeably smaller than him, as well.

                “Ah, Brother Harry, I see you have met Louis!” Father Higgins’ voice suddenly calls, breaking the awkward silence. Harry sighs, eased, glad the situation did not drag on any longer.  
                “Louis, how did you like the brother’s sermon?” the priest walks closer, shaking Louis’ small hand rapidly and patting his back. Louis gapes for a moment, then shrugs and smiles.  
                 “It was- It was lovely,” he says, “I’m afraid I only heard half of it, though, my sister Lottie kept me on the line for awful long. You know how it is with teenagers!” he chuckles painfully, but Father Higgins’ face lights up, as if he has remembered something.  
                “Of course, how could I forget? It’s your birthday today, is it not?”  
Louis nods, and Harry thinks the honesty in his smile fades a little, the longer he stands there with him and the Father. So trying to play the better person, and after wishing Louis a happy birthday and a merry Christmas, he tugs Father Higgins a bit farther, despite his excitement.

He is about to ask him, why Louis looked like he had just seen a ghost, when another lady, this time a buoyant woman with a baby on her hip and a toddler running around her feet, interrupts by inviting him to dinner some time, so he doesn’t get a chance to ask Father Higgins that night.

 

He does get a chance to think of it for hours on end, as he cleans up the back room of the church and walks home, and as he makes himself a midnight cuppa and watches the light blanket of snow outside. It is Christ’s birthday, he chuckles, thinking how brutally humane a birthday is. How brutally unholy, yet at the same time superlative, the act of giving birth is.

He goes through his papers for the next day: Father Higgins is holding the service, but he is to speak at the dinner table for the townsfolk, later. After a drawn out shower, spent listening to the water rushing down his body and thinking of the day, he pulls on a t-shirt and a pair of loose grandpa underpants, (shh, he thinks every night, they’re comfortable), and falls to his bed heavily.

It has been a long day, and the rerun is only half-way done in his head.  
The people gathering, his sweaty palms and rushing heartbeat- Standing in front of the people; them all staring at him, curious of what the new Brother, barely a man, has to say. The positive feedback makes him smile, and give himself an internal pat on the back. He did well, for his first time at least. Sure, the sermon was mainly customary Christmas talk, rather than his own thoughts, but he had managed to slip in a word or two of his opinion. Which is good, very good.

As the people that talked to him after the service run through his head, he finally remembers Louis. It is, or was, since it is long past midnight, his birthday, yet he seemed so tired, so sad. Harry wonders if he is always so sad. He makes a mental note of asking around, seeing if anyone can tell him about the mysterious young man. Something about him intrigues Harry, makes him almost viciously nosy, despite having shared barely a word with him.

He falls asleep a while later – at the time when, were it Summer, birds would already be waking him.

 

The next morning birds do wake him. Only instead of chirping, they are pecking on the seeds on his windowsill. He sits up slowly, rubbing his eyes, and watches the birds for a while. He likes birds; all animals, really. They’re simple, yet so happy. He likes to think God created animals to teach humans, they just aren’t very good learners.

He stumbles out of bed, mumbling a morning prayer.After brushing his teeth, pulling the Christmas-service robe out for later and putting on a simple pair of trousers and a t-shirt for now, he sits down for a cup of coffee. Damn him, he likes coffee in the mornings. He’s in the middle of reading the newspaper, when there is a knock down the hall. Harry frowns, he hadn’t been expecting anyone, but he stands up, straightens his clothes and walks to the door, opening it, if only a little harshly.

No one other than Louis is standing at the door, a plate of steamy fresh biscuits in his hands.

                “Hello, Louis!” Harry greets, happy to see the man well-rested and smiling compared to last night.  
                “Hello, Brother,” –he is forced to make a slightly awkward pause- “Styles, right?” he asks, unsure. Harry nods, and holds out his hand to guide Louis inside.

They walk inside, and Louis tells Harry Mrs. Judith, the old woman who Louis lives with, baked the cookies for Harry, and asked Louis to give them to him. Harry remembers her. She was one of the ladies that came to speak with him the night before, and certainly a remarkable one. It comes as no surprise when Louis, over a cup of tea and the biscuits, tells him she is eighty-seven years old and has lived in this village all her life.

Louis tells Harry she had woken him up at six in the morning, because apparently Mrs. Winston had told her the new Brother would unfortunately probably have no presents this year, and how could she ever live with that? So they had baked him a plateful of chocolate biscuits, and now here they are.

The plate finishes all too soon, but the Christmas Day service doesn’t start until late evening and neither Harry nor Louis have anything better to do, so they decide to go for a walk. Louis, after all, has lived here for a few years, now, and tells Harry he would happily show him around.

Harry lives in the small parsonage, (Father Higgins himself lives with his family farther off in the woods), on the edge of the village. The building is just behind the church-yard, so they begin with that. He would have to know what is around the church, anyway, Harry tells Louis, he just hasn’t had time yet.

They walk through the garden, and Louis confesses he doesn’t know too much about this place – or the graves here, specifically, but Harry reassures him he does not mind. He intently reads every gravestone, pushing the light snow off the writings with his bare hands. Most of the graves are old, and more often than not belong to young people, some barely children.

Louis watches, as Harry stands up from the last grave over half an hour later, and walks a bit further off, then turns around towards the graves again. He closes his eyes, his lips moving, and signs a cross in front of his head and chest. After a second of standing, he opens his eyes again and walks to Louis.  
                “Sorry for neglecting you like that, I, erm, got a bit carried away,” he says, smiling cheerily, before turning to look at the sky, light blue around a perfectly oval greyish cloud, pouring feathery flakes on them.  
                “It’s all good, I suppose this is what you should do at a graveyard,” Louis chuckles, wondering a bit off, to the gate of the church-yard. “Do you want to go around town, too?” he asks after a moment, and Harry nods eagerly, following him.

They leave the garden and walk through the little grove that separates them from the centre of the village. There are birds chirping on the trees, despite the lack of warmth, and sunlight peeking through the few gaps in the branches of the overgrown thuja hedge, creating a silver shine on the light coat of snow on the ground. There are some footprints on the path, but mostly it is all the clean white snow that fell overnight.

The lads walk in silence, sneaking glances at each other, when they think the other won’t notice. Harry is even more intrigued by Louis now than he had been the night before. Only the day before, Harry had been worried about the man, but today he is happily whistling along with the birds.  
As if reading his mind, he turns to Harry, a smile on his lips, lighting up his entire face.  
                “Brother Harry, when exactly did you move here?”  
Harry frowns, thinking, “Almost two weeks ago, I think? A few days here and there, maybe. And call me Harry, please.”  
Louis nods, and they walk on in silence, the only sound their steps on the wet snow and Louis’ whistles every once in a while. Harry chuckles to himself when he realises he cannot whistle.

He stares at his feet for a while, feeling them press into the cold ground, leaving marks behind him. Louis keeps whistling, stopping to listen to the birds for a moment, and then replying to them.  
When they have been walking for a while already, and are just about to reach the town centre, a smile creeps onto Harry’s face, for some reason. He feels warm, for walking down an old forest path with a near stranger, but maybe it’s because it is Christmas Day.

 

To say the village is small would be an overstatement, so all in all the walk is just a few minutes long and they reach the centre square soon. There, Louis tells Harry exactly who lives on top of which store, which also serves for who owns which store. There are seven buildings in total, all of them light brown, light blue or white, with dark gable roofs.  
                “...And the last one,” -Louis points to the blue two storey house in the far right corner- “That’s where Mrs. Judith and I live,” he says. “On top of the flower shop,” he adds after a moment, smiling. They walk towards the building, Louis chatting animatedly about the flowers.

He tells Harry that Mrs. Judith owns the store, but since she is so old, he and a girl from the village, Eleanor, work there, selling the flowers. They don’t sell many, he says also, but they grow them there so it’s alright, really, except in the winter, when they have to order them in from big corporations and it gets pretty complicated. He makes a face at the end, demonstrating his stand on those big corporations.

He’s speaking, when they reach the store and walk in. A bell goes off when the door opens, and a girl standing behind the counter turns around, smiling. Her face falls into an annoyed grimace when she sees Louis.  
                “Louis, where were you?” she asks, setting the vase with tulips onto the table in front of her.  
                “Relax, El,” Louis replies animatedly, “I was showing Brother Harry around town,” he beckons to Harry, who is looking around the store. “You know, being a nice person, that sort of thing, you wouldn’t understand. Not selling flowers to non-existent customers on Christmas Day, though.”

Eleanor throws an overly disgusted glance at him, but without saying anything, turns to Harry.  
                “You’re the new parson, aren’t you?” she asks.  
Harry, who has wondered off to between the shelves in the surprisingly large room, peeks his head out, his body following him a moment later, holding a large azalea with pink blossoms.  
                “Not a parson yet, no, a Brother, I’m still in school,” he says, “I’ll be a parson in some years,” he explains, before walking to the counter and setting the flower down. “I’d like to buy this.”  
His face is lit up in a dumb grin and Louis almost laughs, stepping behind the counter and pushing Eleanor away, with a command to go water something. Eleanor pulls an admonitory face, but walks off, smiling slyly as she turns her back to the men.

                “Why’d you scare her off?” Harry asks, watching Louis pack the flower into old newspapers carefully. His tongue is poked out of the corner of his mouth, but as he looks up he quickly pulls it in again, despite Harry already giggling slightly.  
                “She has a habit of scaring off my friends,” he speaks, louder than necessary on purpose, and Eleanor groans from the other room. They laugh, until she walks up to them, frowning, suddenly.  
                “Brother Harry-”  
                “Just call me Harry,” Harry interrupts.  
                “Okay, Harry,” she says, “How old are you?”  
Harry frowns, but answers, shrugging, “Twenty, why?”

Eleanor smiles, gives Louis a momentous look and nods.  
                “Nothing, you’re just cheerful for like, a church-person.”  
At that, Harry laughs harder than he has in days, clutching his stomach and shaking his head while Louis stands behind the counter, mouth wide open, staring at Eleanor.  
                “You can’t say stuff like that!” he gasps.

Harry looks up then, his face red.  
                “It’s all good, I promise,” he says, turning to Eleanor, still giggling lightly, “Let me tell you, us ‘church-people’,” -he uses air quotes, making Eleanor chuckle as well- “Are a lot different from what most people think we are.”

They then proceed to have a very giggly conversation, about how Harry and their village’s church community are a world away from strict, close-minded Catholics and their medieval views. After Louis finishes packing Harry’s azalea – which takes him a lot longer than it would usually – Harry excuses himself, saying he has to get some stuff done before the service.

Just as he is about to step out of the house, Louis stops him. Eleanor is in the back room, arranging something, so he deems it safe enough.  
                “Harry, I have to ask you something.”  
Harry turns around, a smile playing on his lips, “Yeah, anything.”  
Louis puts down the pen he had been holding, and fiddles with his shirt for a moment, before looking up and smiling hopefully, “You said,” -he looks down at himself for a moment again, before collecting himself- “Oh, I’m gonna be straight forward: do you think being gay is, like, fine?”

Harry’s smile widens, his eyes crinkling up a little.  
                “We’re all equal in God’s eyes,” he says, “So yeah, it’s perfectly fine.”

He throws Louis a thumbs up, holding the flower pot with his forearm, and turns around, trotting onto the street.Louis stands there, his eyes happy and mouth slightly open with his smile.

                “What happened to you? Harry blessed you or something?” Eleanor asks, walking out of the back room, laying a bag of plant soil onto the counter harshly and wiping her hands of the dust.  
                “He said he thinks it’s fine if you’re gay,” Louis replies after a moment over his shoulder, having turned around in an attempt to make it seem like he is checking the appliances on the wall.

Eleanor puffs out a taunting breath and reaches to the shelf under the counter.  
                “Keep in mind, that _he_ is still a minister, or like, gonna be one. It doesn’t make a difference. And you met him when, yesterday?”  
Louis swats at her with his hand, but smiles a bit wider, the more he thinks about it.

When he goes home, or upstairs, an hour later, after having sold exactly one plant – the azalea to Harry – he cannot stop thinking about him. He really isn’t trying very hard to stop, either, but he knows he couldn’t, even if he wanted to. There is something about Harry. Be it his obnoxious hair or the way he speaks, there is something about him that drives Louis insane.

 

The Christmas service passes exactly how the one the night before had. Of course, there are different songs and a different sermon, but it’s roughly the same.  
Harry’s speech turns out to be a positive shocker to the people at the dinner table. When they won’t stop cheering, Harry is, despite his inherent humbleness, forced to bow. He sits back down hurriedly, having spoken standing from his seat, and is glad to notice Louis across from him at the table, smiling adamantly.

He is about to say something, when Louis’ smile reaches its peak, his eyes crinkling closed, and he looks away. Instead, Harry speaks to the woman sitting next to him. It is Mrs. Addison, the same lady who had asked him to a cup of tea the night before, and she does it again, three times, in fact, during the dinner. Harry accepts gladly, she seems like someone you would want on your side in a new hometown; especially one that could have been taken from an overly-stereotyped TV series.

After the dinner, and another half-hour spent listening to people praise him, (this place is already overfeeding his ego, he thinks,) Louis walks up to him, reminding Harry all too much of the night before. Only Louis is giggling about something a man farther off had said and his spirit is over the moon, compared to last night.  
                “Hey, I was wondering, do you want to come with me and El and some others to the pub? ‘Cause it was my birthday yesterday, so-” he interrupts himself suddenly, fishmouthing for a fraction of a second, before speaking again, “You obviously don’t have to drink or anything, I totally get it, but I just think it’d be cool, hm?” he finishes.

Harry considers the thought. He glances at the group of people standing at the door, waiting for Louis, apparently. They seem older than Louis and himself, but nice. He wonders if their drinking habits might get out of hand, but realises it would be good then if he was there, sober. So he agrees, but only after Father Higgins promises he doesn’t need help cleaning up.

Louis’ friends, who Harry learns are Sophia, Lou, Zayn, Liam, Niall, and Eleanor (though Harry knows her already) decide to leave for the bar already, and Harry and Louis promise to catch up soon. Harry just needs to drop by the parsonage to change out of his robe, and Louis would have to show him the way, anyway.

 

                “They’re really very nice people, you know,” Louis says, standing behind Harry’s bedroom door while he changes clothes, waiting. “Zayn moved here after he finished university - he studied English,” he goes on, “And Niall is in a band, he’s quite successful, you know. He’s only staying for the holidays.  
                “Liam and Sophia live here, and Lou, she’s the oldest, she has a husband and a daughter, she lives here as well. It’s funny, they’re all such modern-” his words fall suddenly, as Harry steps out of the room, wearing a simple white t-shirt and light grey skinny jeans. A cross is hanging from his neck, and Louis feels like it doesn’t belong.

Harry gives him an expectant look and Louis remembers he was talking.  
                “-Modern people, I don’t really know what they see in this tiny place.”  
Harry chuckles a little, walking past Louis to the hall. He wraps a scarf loosely around his neck and pulls on his coat, but stops his movements suddenly, frowning at Louis.  
                “What do you see in this place, then?”  
Louis looks up from where he had been crouching, pulling on his boots, and juts out his lips, thinking.  
                “Not much? But it’s beautiful, you know. The people, as well. It’s easy to get lost in a small place like this. No one has to know you where everyone knows all about you,” he says.  
The moment after the last word has left his lips, his eyes widen and lips shut tightly, as if he is surprised at his own words. Harry examines him, even after Louis turns back to his bootlaces. He has a feeling Louis had not meant to say that.

They walk to the pub in silence, except for Louis’ odd remarks about who lives in which house.

 

                “The Carpenter,” Harry reads the red letters painted carefully onto a plank of wood above the door of the bar, “What kind of a name is that?” he questions as they walk into the dimly lit room.

It cannot be more than five meters times seven, in area. The walls are lined with rows of classic pub seats, old leather sofas with five buttons pushing the cover into the cushions on both the seat and the back, the yellow sponge-like material showing from shabby edges. The pub is empty, except for Louis’ group of friends, sitting at the counter island on high stools, covered in dark-brown leather as well. The whole place reeks of beer and vodka, and other substances that Harry cannot, nor wants to identify.  
                “Don’t know, why it’s called The Carpenter. Mrs. Judith says this place has been here all her life and she doesn’t know, so, it’s a mystery!” Louis says, swirling his fingers in front of his face, making Harry giggle.

They walk up to the group gathered at the counter, and are immediately greeted with hugs and cheering. Harry takes in the large pints in front of each person, but tries to go along with what Louis had said before. _They’re all very nice people_.  
When one of the men, Zayn, Harry hopes he remembers correctly, holds up two fingers near the bartender’s face, Harry is quick to correct him, though.  
                “I don’t drink, actually,” he mumbles, feeling a bit awkward, but when Louis scolds Zayn for ordering before asking, and Niall, too, for laughing, he feels a bit better.

 

A while later, Harry comes to the conclusion the pub being open on Christmas Day is a strange thing, so he asks about it. Niall is about to answer, when an older man, the bartender, extends his head from the back room and informs him.  
                “Mate, there’s no such thing as a holiday in this place,” he says, “When little Tommo told me he wanted to celebrate his birthday, well, who am I to refuse young people, eh?”

So that’s that, Harry thinks pensive-humorously, no such thing as Christmas Peace in this place.

For a while after that, Harry sits in silence, watching as the people he’s supposed to be with, chat, about what, he’s not sure. He is broken out of his reverie when a female voice suddenly speaks up, seemingly talking to him.  
                “What do we even call you?” it asks, and Harry turns his head abruptly. Himself, he hadn’t even noticed he had been staring at the wall silently for the past few minutes.  
                “Harry, call me Harry,” he says, smiling, turning to look at her.  
Lou, he remembers; short for Louise, probably.  
                “Good, ‘cause I’d feel weird finding a pastor attractive, so like,” Lou chuckles, wiping the trail of beer foam dribbling from the corner of her mouth. Harry laughs at that. Somehow it is very funny, especially when Louis gives them an appalled look and waves his finger in her face.  
                “You have a child and a husband at home, Louise!” he yells.

 

Louis’ friends are strange, there is no denying it. Actually, Harry is most likely the odd one out, having not spent too much time with people whose most beloved topic isn’t Christianity, over the past few years, but he fits somehow. They don’t mind explaining inside jokes to him and Harry really cannot recall any instances where that has happened, after people have found out he’s studying theology.

Some time later, Louis is pulling Liam away from Niall, the men throwing punching motions at each other playfully. “Lads, lads, calm down!” he says, nearly screaming, “Liam, what have you been drinking?”  
Play-fighting with more drinks than necessary on your account, in the tiniest pub imaginable is really not too much of a good idea.  
                “Oh, a lot of things,” Liam responds, “but I’m feeling great, no worry about me!” He tries to launch back at Niall, giggling tremendously, and almost succeeds, but Louis manages to secure his grip on his arms and pull him back to the bar.  
                “I’m not worried about you, mate, I’m worried about the building!”  
Liam keeps giggling, but sits down. Niall walks after them, sitting down as well - should be noted, at the farthest stool from Liam’s, and when Harry realises this, he smiles shrewdly. He has been watching the group banter since they got there, not really going along, but not ignoring it, either. He’s glad they don’t pressure him to be too active. Louis’ little glances and smiles every once in a while are enough. More than enough actually, they make him quite mindlessly happy.

                “I think we should call it quits,” Louis says soon afterwards, chugging the last of his beer and banging the glass on the table. Harry flinches at the sound, fearing the glass will break.  
                “I agree with Louis,” he muses, “you lot have had enough.”  
 It is quite funny being the only sober one in the group and seeing them all, beautifully inebriated, in Harry’s opinion. To recap, Lou and Eleanor are up from their stools by now, dancing to the horrid folk coming off the speakers, Niall and Zayn are throwing up gang sings and ‘rapping’, and Liam and Sophia, well.

The rest don’t seem to agree with Harry and Louis, though. Niall’s rap goes from snogging shenanigans to “oy bro we ain’t leavin’!” and Eleanor flips them off. Louis cringes, and stands up from his stool to move a seat to the left, next to Harry. His voice hollering around the room, he reminds their companions that it is, in fact, Christmas. Nobody responds, except for Harry, who nods knowingly, as if saying, _tell me about it._  
                “I suppose we’re stuck here?” he chuckles piteously, shaking his head at Lou and Eleanor, screaming along to some song he is sure he has never heard before.  
                “Nah, I think we should get out of here,” Louis says, standing up to his feet. He raises his brows at Harry, his forehead wrinkling, the black lights forming funny lines on his face. Harry looks around at the others, unsure.  
                “It wouldn’t be very nice,” he says assertively, but stands up anyway. Louis, already ahead of him, pulls on his coat and smirks mischievously.  
                “I’m not a very nice person.”

Harry harrumphs, and wants to point out he likes to think of himself as a very nice person, but Louis’ already pulling on his hat and trotting out the door victoriously. He hurries after him, so that when the bell rings, signing the opening of the door, they’re already out.

Louis crosses the street, shoving his hands in the small pockets of his jacket.  
                “Holy fuck, it’s cold!” he exclaims, when Harry reaches him. Harry shakes his head at his choice of words, but agrees. It is cold, for southern England at least, a few minus degrees Celsius, definitely.  
                “You want to go home or?” Harry asks awkwardly, then, palming the insides of his coat pockets.  
                “You mean like, separately? ‘Cause I was hoping we could hang out? I mean I totally understand if you want to go but-”  
                “No, no!” Harry interrupts, glad Louis wants to stick together for a while. He had been hoping so, “I’d love it!”  
He wonders momentarily if he came off a little too enthusiastic, but Louis doesn’t seem to mind. Or notice, rather. Instead, he makes a remark about how he would not have been too keen on spending the evening alone, as it is Christmas after all, and offers sitting down at the flower shop, since it’s only around the corner. Everything is around the corner in Affick, but that’s besides the point. They walk to the flower shop in silence, but it’s such a short walk it doesn’t make it awkward.

The small cover of snow from last night is still on the ground, sparkling clean with barely any cars or people to spoil it. It cracks lightly under their steps, and Harry listens intently to every sound, trying to pick up differences. If it wasn’t for the snow, the world around them would be pitch black, and that’s when Harry realises something – there are no street lamps. It is a strange thought, and suddenly he cannot get it out of his head. He is just about to ask Louis, when they reach the house, and Louis becomes preoccupied.

He unlocks the door and turns on the lightning, the bright illumination of the fluorescent lamps burning Harry’s eyes slightly, having walked in from the dark streets. As Louis guides him to the back room and puts the kettle on to make tea, Harry’s mind wonders back onto street lamps.  
                “Do you even have street lamps here?” he blurts out off-handedly. Louis frowns at him, sitting down across the table.  
                “Do we have _street lamps_ here? In the shop?” he asks.  
                “No, I mean here, in the town,” Harry explains, “On the streets, I haven’t noticed any,” he says, chuckling inwardly at himself. Louis touches his chin with the tips of his fingers, a small furrow appearing between his eyebrows.  
                “I haven’t thought about it,” he finally responds.  
His eyes widen after a second and he looks at Harry, surprised. “I don’t think there are any!”

 

 

They talk about streetlamps for much longer than one may think is possible. By the time their cups are empty, they have unearthed that starlight is a very good source of light, despite popular belief, and that their village is only a tiny bit pitiful, having no streetlights and all that.

Suddenly, they’re talking about families. It starts when Louis mentions the unofficial mayor of the town, Mr. Winston, and from there they escalate onto his family, and then the other families, and then generally, families.

 

                “I definitely want kids one day,” Harry must be repeating the thought for the tenth time, at least. Louis agrees though, he has always wanted to be a father.  
                “But,” -before going on Louis makes a pause, vowing he’s only advancing the conversation, nothing else,- “is there anyone in your life, then? To have kids with, I mean,” he asks.  
                “No, unfortunately,” Harry says, and Louis breathes a little easier, glad Harry doesn’t find it an impolite question.  
                “But I’m really concentrating on work right now,” Harry goes on, “you know, God. I like to think I’ll have to figure out myself first and then start with figuring out others. The Lord just makes it easier- He’s like a notepad, or something, little post-it notes that remind you who you are and stuff,” he says, chuckling lightly at the thought. He’s worded it that way before, but only in his head, never to someone else.

Louis laughs, too, at the thought, not in a way to ridicule Harry. He has never been one to talk about religion, finds it an overused topic, but somehow he does not even care what it is he talks about, as long as he is talking to Harry. Maybe it is not the best thing, but he does not care. Not enough to stop himself, at least.

Harry, on the other hand, has always found the matter of God and religion absolutely thrilling. That is why he studies it, of course. He thinks people shy away from it easily, and many are even disturbed by having to talk about it, so partially, he does it to make them think, even if they do not want to.

They keep speaking of it, and for the first time since he started studying theology, Harry realises he is speaking from his own point of view, from a simple man’s one, not from a Brother’s.

 

It’s nearly morning when he finally finds himself walking through the alley that leads to his house, and he suddenly remembers the way they had been walking down the road before, Louis whistling along to the birds and Harry watching him. He had felt serene, then, and come to think of it, he has felt the same sort of contentment throughout the day.

He thinks back to his first week in town, unpacking boxes and only communicating with Father Higgins. The second week had started off a little better, and in a day the third week starts. By the time he is home, sitting on the edge of his bed, he wouldn’t be able to wash the stupid smile he is wearing off his face, even if he tried - because he has made a friend. A loud, witty friend, who loses his words every once in a while and stares into the distance, pondering, but then snaps out of his haze again and goes on, sassing his friends and being an over-all obnoxious person. A mysterious friend, Harry thinks. A friend you wouldn’t imagine Harry getting on with, but he likes it. He likes Louis.

 

The new week does start, as expected, the following day. The Boxing Day celebrations only take up an hour in the morning, so he is free for the rest of the day - and for most of the week, and the week after that, and the week after that. After almost two weeks of doing nothing but reading, writing sermons, walking around town and maybe having a cuppa with Louis at the flower shop, Harry feels like he is going to explode with passivity.

So he starts working out. It’s been a while since the last time he regularly did that, but with moderate British weather of plus degrees arriving mid-January, jogging suddenly seems like the best idea ever.

It’s on a sunny Tuesday morning in the middle of taking a tour in the freshly vernal town, when Harry decides to hop into the flower shop. He barges in sweaty and panting, making Louis gasp when he turns around to see him.  
                “Lord, Harry, are you trying to kill the plants with your smell?” he exclaims, “Get out or go and do something with yourself in the back, and fast!”

Harry smiles, winks, and makes his way to the backroom to wash his face. Louis is right, even he can smell himself. It’s quite appalling.  
He washes his face and neck quickly, shovelling some of the water to his armpits and below his nape as well, trying to disguise some of the smell. Once he deems himself suitable, he trots happily back into the main room, despite knowing Louis will still be exasperated, hygienic as he is.

Louis has put on the radio, some jazzy pop song playing. The store is empty except for the two of them - as far as Harry is concerned, Eleanor rarely seems to be doing her job – and Louis is standing between the shelves, dancing along to the music while he waters the pot-plants.

When he reaches him, Harry stares, he can’t help it. He has spent the majority of the last few days, (weeks, really), with Louis, and every moment he has had to hold himself back more. He’s just _so beautiful,_ and there are those moments when he looks so sad, so lost, like an orphan sitting on the windowsill of an orphanage, waiting for someone to never return and it makes Harry go absolutely crazy, because he wants to help, but he cannot, and the whole thing feels terrifying. And still, Louis manages to be so captivating.  
Harry feels like the protagonist of a horrible Hollywood rom-com, whenever he spends more than an hour with Louis.

So he stares, almost shamelessly, until Louis turns around, laughing and pulling Harry along to dance with him, even though he still smells like a homeless person. Louis wraps his arms around Harry’s neck loosely and sways around; giggling at Harry’s flabbergasted efforts to dance with him. He lets go, when Harry’s efforts seem to not be enough, rolling his eyes, and walks back to the table at the front of the room. Harry _almost_ runs after and kisses him.

 

 

Most of Harry’s days pass that way from then on, and each day it is harder to keep himself away from Louis. At first, he had been trying to tell himself it is wrong, but now he doesn’t even try anymore. He has never been one to think being gay is wrong, so why would he try to keep himself from doing what makes him happy – it is not like he was ever going to live in celibacy.

Yet he does try to stop himself, just because he does not want to weird Louis out, nor does he need anyone to know about his little “crush”; at least not in the near future. So he distances himself from Louis, but only a little. For example, instead of visiting Louis almost every day, he starts visiting other townsfolk. Like Mrs. Addison, who has invited him over at least ten times by now.  
  
  
He manages to make the trip – a five minute walk – to the Addison’s place a week later. It may or may not be the hardest thing he has had to do since moving here, just because he cannot decide what to do. Wearing his robe would seem strange, he’s not going over for work, but jeans and a t-shirt is the stuff he wears when he’s out with his friends. (Louis.) A suit would be way too formal, he has only seen anyone in a suit here once, during a wedding. And what would he say? Do? What would they talk about?

He comes to the conclusion _that_ won’t be too much of a problem. Mrs. Addison will find something to talk about, surely. And a button-up and a black pair of jeans that are not too tight, nor too jean-like, seem a fair choice. So he makes the trip – a five minute walk, as mentioned – to the Addison’s place.

 

                “Oh, Brother Styles, how lovely of you to come, I’ll put the kettle on, yes?”

Mrs. Addison – Linda Patricia: Harry has no idea how or why he knows her full name - is on him the moment she opens the door to him, but he doesn’t mind. Little Elliott is following her around, holding onto the end of her dress. Harry takes off his coat and boots, and crouches down to the boy staring at him meekly.

                “Hey, little fellow, how are you?” he asks, holding out his hand, distracting Elliott enough for Mrs. Addison to be able to sneak into the kitchen of the tiny bungalow house.  
Elliott smiles, but doesn’t say anything, only watching Harry, from underneath his light blonde lashes. Harry stands up again, a smile still on his lips. He likes children – and he would love to have some of his own, one day.

The toddler waddles off, calling for his Mummy, and Harry follows him, glee washing over him. The house smells of life, Harry feels it when he inhales; not in his nose, but somewhere deeper. It is a warm smell, a mixture of apple pie and fresh tea, the plastic of children’s toys and old books, with a dash of home cuisine.

Mrs. Addison calls him into the kitchen, where he sits down at the table, across from Linda herself and little Elliott, sitting in his mother’s lap. She feeds him, while telling Harry about how much he has grown and learned and what an active and good child he is, all the while mumbling little praises to the toddler, who giggles and nods along, basking in the praise.

She finishes feeding Elliott, but keeps him in her lap, turning to Harry, who is halfway through his tea. She asks him about how he likes it here, and goes on and on about what they all do – that the community is glad to have him and that it is better than anything to have fresh blood every now and then, and wow, Harry is really beginning to love himself.

They talk about if and with whom Harry has made friends with, then, and without even realising it, he won’t shut up about Louis. Mrs. Addison has this knowing smile on her face, until it falls for a second, but lights up even more then, suddenly. Harry misses the movement, fortunately.

She puts Elliott, bored to death by all the talk he cannot understand, down, and urges him to go to the living room to play with the kittens. For a second, Harry wonders if it is advisable to leave toddlers and baby animals alone in a room full of all kinds of things that could harm them, but reckons the mother knows best.

When Elliott is out of the room, Linda turns to Harry again, the smile from before painting her face. She says something about Louis and leans in then, conspiratorial.

                “Too bad he is, you know,” she whispers, hiding her mouth behind her hand, “different.”  
Harry frowns, leaning closer as well, and asks, “What do you mean, ‘different’?”  
                “Well, he is,” she shakes her shoulders slightly, and deep down she is not as worried about the thought as about Harry’s reaction, but keeping her cool she speaks lightly, even though still whispering, “homosexual.”

Harry frowns once more, tilting his head slightly.  
                 “What do you mean?”  
She smiles momentarily and hides her face then, looking down at the table between them before looking up at Harry again, now she really feels embarrassed.  
                “You know, it’s when men,” she says, voice fading into a bare whisper once more, “love other men.”

Harry puffs out a breath involuntarily. He smiles, causing Mrs. Addison to give him a questioning look.  
                “I don’t see a problem in that,” he says, shrugging quickly, carelessly. Mrs. Addison’s eyes widen, and she straightens her posture, leaning closer to Harry again, after a while.  
                “Isn’t that-”  
                “Bad? A sin?” Harry interrupts, his words harsh but tone amused, “I mean, some would think so, but if he is happy then I _really_ don’t see a fault,” he says, “And he’s a lovely person!”  
Mrs. Addison stares at him blankly for a moment, but slowly a smile drags onto her face.  
                “Well, isn’t that lovely,” she exclaims happily, “I never really thought it was a bad thing, just you, ‘church people’,” -she uses air quotes, making Harry smirk,- “You never know, is what it is,” she finishes.

Harry nods, raising his arms slowly, displaying unconcern.  
                “I guess most people in the community do have a problem with it, but not me, no,” he chuckles, grabbing his cup of tea – cold now - and gulping it in one go.

They leave the topic soon afterwards, moving on to things one may describe as boring. Adult-ish - the economy and politics and children. Harry is really quite bored, if he is honest with himself, by the time he steps down the stairs in front of the house. Mrs. Addison is a lovely lady, but he still hasn’t come to grips with being twenty, and having to act as a grown-up. He’s musing over that, walking towards the parsonage, smiling to himself as he often does, when something hits him.

He realises he is not, in fact, going to be twenty tomorrow. It’s the last day of January, meaning his birthday will be the next day.  
Of course, he does the best thing he could in a situation as grave as this- he goes running to the flower-shop. And of course, for the first time in forever, Louis is _not_ there.

It’s not that it matters, really, he just. Just wants to tell Louis.  
He’s perfectly calm and collected, and he definitely isn’t panicking for absolutely no reason, why would he ever do that? He’s a stable, reserved man, after all.

                “Where’s Louis?” he yells as soon as he reaches the desk, banging his hands onto the counter. Eleanor turns around, a mildly horrified expression on her face.  
                “Gosh, calm down! He’s upstairs, what happened?” she says, crossing her arms over her chest, “I get it you’re like, in love or something, but calm down!”

Harry dashes to the back room and up the stairs faster than he had intended. Mostly because Eleanor does not need to see his blush. He also truly hopes Mrs. Judith, like most people in the village, keeps her front door unlocked.

No such luck, though -when he turns the knob, nothing happens. He’s never been up here before, Louis’ absolutely always downstairs. It is a bit of a shock, him not being there.

He notices a small black button on the wall just under his eye line, then, and supposes it’s a doorbell. A swinging tune sounds muffled behind the door, and Harry smiles hopefully, when he hears fast steps coming towards the door. Way too fast to be Mrs. Judith.

The lock cracks and the door opens, revealing a tuft of brown hair and a grinning face after a second. Louis yelps when he sees it’s Harry, and surprising both himself and the man, slams the door shut again. A sound leaves his mouth – one that starts off an octave higher than his speaking voice and ends one lower, all in the duration of a second.

Harry knocks on the door again, then, calling Louis’ name. There are muffled voices behind the door, one Louis’ and one barely audible - Mrs. Judith’s, presumably. After a moment, the door opens again and Louis peeks out, clutching the edge of the door, hanging his nose over it between his hands.

                   “What do you want?” he snaps, but his voice is quiet, and Harry isn’t sure if he is mad or startled.  
                   “To talk; it’s urgent,” he says  
Louis fidgets behind the door, grimacing and peeking over his shoulder.  
                   “I’m busy but, erm, can you make it quick?”  
                   “Yeah,” Harry drawls after staring open-mouthed for an unnecessary amount of time, “I just remembered it’s my birthday tomorrow.”

Louis nods hastily, until Harry’s words hit him. His movements halt and eyes widen, until a bright grin appears on his face.  
                   “Wait, you forgot?” he says, pushing the door open just slightly, so his toes, bare, peek out behind the edge.

Harry smiles pitifully, laughing at himself, and nods. Louis’ smile grows and he opens the door completely, stepping in.  
                   “Oh my,” he mumbles, leading Harry in by the end of his sleeve. He tumbles in, inhaling deeply, when the sweet smell of baking reaches his nose.  
                   “Mrs. Judith is baking?” he asks. (He has learned over the past month, that Louis cannot cook nor bake to save his life, so even though he more often than not takes the credit for the goods, it is always Mrs. Judith, who actually prepares them.)

Louis stops, turns around and pursing his lips, shrugging, says, “This time it actually was me. Or, well, I was trying.”

He realises he’s still holding onto Harry’s sleeve and lets go of it, rubbing his fingers together where they touched the fabric.  
                   “Anyways, you see,” he starts off, thinking of how to say it, “you forgot it’s your birthday tomorrow, but I didn’t really, so I wanted to um, bake a cake for you?” he settles for, forming the end of the sentence into a question. Harry starts laughing, once he has managed to wrap his head around the sentence, almost hysterically.  
                   “You- Really?” he slurs through the spurts.

Louis is very glad Harry isn’t questioning why Louis would even feel the need to do anything for his birthday, or why he would remember it when Harry does not. He’s about to make a snarky remark, when clutter sounds from the kitchen and Mrs. Judith steps into the living room, her right arm wrapped around a large tin bowl and left one on her hip.  
                   “What’s the matter, Louis?” she calls, squinting to see what is going on.  
Louis, who had been giggling by now, as well, turns around with a bright smile painted on his face.  
                   “I’m afraid our cake won’t be as much as a surprise anymore, Mrs. Judith! Brother Harry’s here.”

The old woman steps closer and shaking her head gives Louis’ shoulder a light swat when she passes him.  
                   “And why would you let him in, then?” she asks.  
Louis shrugs, rubbing his shoulder, even though it doesn’t actually hurt. Mrs. Judith and he like to be dramatic.

Harry switches a glance between the two, and walks into the kitchen.  
                   “So, what cake- Have mercy, what is going on here!” he yells, voice sounding across the flat, as the reek of burnt tuck reaches his nose.

Louis runs after him, yelling, and pushes him away.  
                   “Nothing!” he shouts, “I burnt it, just a bit, it’s no biggie!”  
He’s aimlessly tossing around the pots and pans, and setting them onto different counters. Harry looks around the room, everything spotless, except for the counter island in the middle of the spacious room, covered from one side to the other in dough and flour, trays and utensils scattered about.

Harry feels movement next to him, Mrs. Judith walking up to stand next to him. They watch as Louis runs around in the room in silence, not showing any helpfulness, but not exactly mocking him by staring, either. He turns around, still, and quite literally throwing the tray of dark, glossy goo onto the counter slumps up to them, pouting.

                   “I can’t do it,” he murmurs.  
Harry feels sorry for him, he really does, but he cannot help the smile appearing on his face, partly because Louis and partly because, _well_ , Louis.  
                   “Would you mind if I helped? And,” –he looks at Mrs. Judith, smiling- “Mrs. Judith, of course, too.”  
Louis throws his mouth open, shaking his head rapidly.  
                   “You can’t make your own birthday cake! Not when it was supposed to be a surprise!” he yells.  
                   “Why not?” Harry muses, playful.  
                   “Because- Because you can’t!” Louis tries to fire back, but surrenders, when Harry simply steps past him, shaking his head happily. He cleans up the kitchen one item by one, the light brown surfaces appearing from beneath the flour. Mrs. Judith joins in, and Louis sits down at the table soon, his arms crossing his chest as he watches them, sulking.

When the kitchen is clean and Mrs. Judith is about to put away the things Harry stops him.  
                    “Wait, don’t put them away yet! We still have a cake to bake!” he reminds her.  
Mrs. Judith turns to him slowly and smiles, stepping back to the kitchen. She looks at Harry, then beckons to Louis, almost unheedingly, and raises her eyebrows. Harry smirks at the huffy man in the chair and calls out, “Lou, come here, help us out!”  
Louis looks up from his lap, the corners of his lips pulled down, and stands up forcibly.  
                   “I messed it up the last time, are you sure you want me?”

Harry pats his back and hands him a bowl and a spoon.  
                   “I’m sure.”

 

They bake a cake. With different misadventures and incidents making their way in there – such as Louis burning his finger and Harry getting paste all over his hair, while Mrs. Judith only shakes her head and laughs quietly – but eventually they do bake a cake. Louis throws Harry out of the house then, saying if he couldn’t make it he is going to at least decorate it, and give it to him on his actual birthday.

When he gives it to Harry on his actual birthday the next day, it is, well.  
Nothing like it had been the day before. There is pink mess all over the top and the sides and a big ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY HARRY, UR OLD NOW’, written in golden glaze over that.

Harry accepts it with a thank you through a fit of laughter, and they go outside to eat it, despite the temperature being greatly under ten. Since it is quite sweet - as expected from the moment Harry dumped a whole bag of sugar in it - they only eat a few pieces each, and offer leftovers to passer-bys. Some of their friends show up as well, and Harry’s unofficial birthday party results in being a lovely, fun evening.

When they part ways – Louis and Harry, that is – it is as usually nearing midnight, and they have gone through every topic imaginable. This time on Harry’s couch, sharing a single duvet big enough to cover them both only if they stick close to each other. Neither of the men are bothered by that. Not at all, really.

 

The next time Louis shows up at Harry’s house, it is a week later, completely at random. He seems off, but not enough for Harry to mention it. Louis almost wordlessly walks in, sparing only a single glance at Harry, choosing to look away, rather. Harry sits them down at the table, pushing a steaming cup under Louis’ nose soon.  
                   “So, did you want to tell me something or?” he asks, trying to gently encourage Louis onto telling him whatever it is that is bothering him. Whatever it is that has been bothering him since they met.

Louis takes a timid sip from his cup and sets it down again, his gaze travelling over the desk, to meet Harry’s. He sighs shakily, and remains quiet. Harry keeps looking into his eyes, until Louis looks away uncomfortably.  
                   “Is everything alright?” he inquires, unable to sit in silence any longer. Louis looks back at him for a second, and shrugs, hiding his face behind his cup. They sit in silence.

Harry wants so badly to walk up to Louis, rest his hand on his shoulder and comfort him, whatever it is that makes him need comforting. He, after all, only wants to help, and should, too, being a Brother. Instead, he sits in his seat and frowns at Louis, worry washing over him like the stormy February waves of the Atlantic they had gone to see a day or two ago.

                   “I don’t even know why I’m here. I don’t want to tell you anything,” Louis says, his head snapping up. His words sound like he is blaming Harry of this, and Harry frowns even deeper.  
                   “You don’t have to,” he stays on Louis’ side, despite not knowing what it is that they are, or Louis is, facing. The silence returns for a moment, and Harry knows he has to say something. Has to find a way to open Louis up.  
                   “I’m just worried,” he goes, “You’re- not well.”

Louis looks up at him, grimacing. He shakes his head almost furiously.  
                   “I’m perfectly well, Harry. I’m not perfect, sometimes, okay, but-”  
                   “Louis,” Harry murmurs harshly, leaning closer to him over the table. He knows his voice is too loud and vigorous, for Louis’ fragile state, but he cannot help it, he must make Louis listen to him.  
                   “Where did all this pain get into you?” he asks then, lowering his voice again, “Who put it there?”    

Louis stares at him blankly, his eyelashes fluttering and face muscles straining with the effort of keeping tears back. He blinks, and when a single tear rips its way past his eyelid, he falters his gaze, looking down at the table.

Harry leans back against the back of the chair, but keeps looking at him, begging silently. He doesn’t even know what he’s asking, doesn’t even know who he’s asking from. Is he on his knees in front of Louis, or himself? Or in front of the Lord, pleading for help?

                “Please,” he breathes, closing his eyes. He has not blinked for so long, there are patterns dancing before them and it hurts. Hurts almost as much as his heart, when he opens his eyes again and sees Louis, staring at him silently.

                “I should go home,” is what comes out of his mouth, and Harry almost falls off his chair, screaming. He cannot leave like this. He just arrived, anyway, and he has to tell Harry, has to let him help. But even before the thought is finished, Harry knows that is not true. Louis does not owe him anything, does not have to tell him anything.

He doesn’t stop Louis, when he stands up and walks into the hall. He doesn’t stop Louis, when he pulls on his sneakers and jacket, and doesn’t stop him, when he walks out, the door hanging open after him.

Instead, Harry stands up, walks to the door and watches as Louis’ small silhouette disappears into the night. He looks up into the empty black sky, lonesome stars scattered about, not filling the dark abyss.  
                “Please keep him safe, Father.”

His plea hangs in the air for a moment, until he turns around short, and the inertia dispels the words.

 

It is not until over a week later, that Harry and Louis speak again. It’s a tad past noon on a Sunday; the weekly service has just ended - Harry has been taking over most of the average services over the last few weeks, in order to reduce Father Higgins’ work load. He steps out of the back room after having changed from his robe to a casual outfit, when he spots Louis in one of the middle rows, looking up at the altar.

Harry almost passes him without a word, but changes his mind at the last moment. He steps to the end of the row Louis’ sitting in, and simply stands there for a little while.  
                “What are you doing here, Lou?”  
He tries to sound light, but the effort only serves to make him sound desperate.

Louis doesn’t look away from the altar, but he straightens his back just so Harry can tell he has been heard.His reply comes after a tardy silence.  
                “I like sitting here after services. Don’t know why, really. I think I feel Him better, when I’m alone,” Louis says.  
Harry nods, finding Louis’ idea interesting. He sits down on the corner of the tall bench, leaving about a meter and a half between him and Louis.  
                “That’s an interesting way of seeing it. I’ve always thought you feel God when you’re surrounded by all those people who feel him with you. I know I feel Him during services. Or,” -he turns his head only lightly, so he can peer at Louis from the corners of his eyes- “Or rather I feel like he can feel me, during services. Like he can hear me.”

Louis, still intently staring at the cross hung on the wall above the altar, nods solemnly, averting his gaze onto his lap soon afterwards.  
Finally, _finally,_ he looks at Harry, his eyes red and the skin around them sagged, but he is smiling and Harry smiles too, even though there is not an ounce of happiness in their faces.

Louis’ gaze travels from Harry to the wall behind him, covered in pictures,  
                “You see, Broth- You see, Harry, I’m selfish; I want Him to myself. I suppose that’s why I stay here after services – to have Him to myself, to make sure he notices me. Because why would he look at me, filled to the brim with sin, during the service, if he can look at all the others, incredible and pious?  
                “I stay here after services to remind Him of what he’s done, Brother Harry.”  
The way he says “Brother Harry” makes the said man flinch.  
                “My Nan always told me, when I was little,” Louis continues, “that when we go to church we go to visit God, like we would go to visit out parents, or relatives. And when you have visitors, you have fun, don’t you? You talk about what good has happened and how well everyone is doing.”

He bursts up from his seat, all of a sudden, and throws his head back to look at the ceiling of the church.  
                “Well look at me, oh almighty Father! Nothing good has happened to me, nothing! I’m not doing bloody well! Look at me, God! Look at my sins, my flaws, Jesus! Is this what you died for? Is it? Well fuck you, you failed!”

He’s sneering, and Harry wants to command him to stop, to calm down, but he knows it is not going to help. Louis needs this, and Harry knows, very well, he has to do it right now, right here. What better place to learn your lesson than your Father’s chamber.

But Louis is already finished, and after a minute of staring at the ceiling, arms thrown open, exposing himself, he sits back down again, panting tiredly. They sit in silence, until Louis breaks out in a spiteful, almost evil grin and turns to Harry.  
                “Well, this is why I like to stay here after services,” he says, standing up from his seat and stepping out of the row, his steps echoing in the empty hall as he hastily walks through the aisle to the door.  
                “Good day, Brother,” he adds, walking out, the heavy wooden door falling shut after him loudly.

Harry has to hold onto the chair to not run after him. Instead, after an amount of time he will later have no recollection of, he shuffles out of the row of chairs and walks up to the altar, falling to his knees and resting his head on his entwined fingers.  
                “Dear Lord, please tell me what I’m doing is right, please tell me I’m not only doing him more harm this way,” he murmurs, biting the inside of his lip once his finished. He looks up at the crucifix on the wall in front of him and sighs, squeezing his fingers where they lie intertwined.  
                “Please tell me it is okay for me to care as much as I do.”

He closes his eyes and sighs once more, standing up after mouthing an Amen.

He finishes up his things in the back room, and locking the small room after himself, steps out into the bright February day. The sun is high in the sky, and a few early birdies are chirping their love songs from treetops. This, and the letter from his family he finds in his letterbox later, lift his spirits, making him forget the incident with Louis.

Until later in the night, when the stars are high up in the sky and Harry is cuddled comfortably into his sofa, wrapped in an enormous comforter, watching the telly intently. He is startled out of his concentration, when the doorbell rings, playing the borderline annoying, shrill sound for exactly five seconds, then halting.

He dodders off the sofa, muttering about peace and calm, but pulls a bright smile on before opening the door anyway. His happy demeanour last for exactly a second, the time it takes him to register who it is behind the door.

                “I want to talk to you,” Louis says, long, narrow tear tracks covering his cheeks, glossy in the light illuminating from the hall. Harry opens his mouth, wanting to say something, but Louis doesn’t give him a chance, pushing past him and walking inside, shoving off his jacket and pulling off his shoes. Harry closes the door, taking his time turning the locks. He thinks of the last time Louis had wanted to talk to him. It couldn’t have been more than two weeks ago.

By the time he turns around, Louis is already gone. Harry finds him in the kitchen, pouring himself a cup of tea, or trying to, with uncontrollably shaking hands. He ends up pouring most of the tea onto the counter, and when he realises that he hammers the jug onto the hardwood surface with a yell. Harry almost hears the glass clattering and falling into pieces, but somehow it stays in place.

Louis, on the other hand, keeps wailing and sobbing, leaning against the table and gripping the edges tightly, the knuckles of his fingers white. Harry realises saying something wouldn’t help, so instead he goes to the counter and pours the tea himself, wiping the surface and cleaning the cup from the mess on the board. He pushes it towards Louis, smiling hopefully.  
                “It’s okay, Lou, this happens to the best of us, yeah?”

Louis looks at him, frowning, angry suddenly.  
                “Well I’m obviously not the best of us, am I? I’m a worthless fucking-” he can’t finish his sentence, instead squeezing his hands into fists and letting out a harsh breath.

Harry looks at him for a moment, before wrapping his arms around Louis’ stiff body soundlessly and hanging his head over his shoulder.  
                “No, you’re not worthless, Louis. No one is worthless, not in God’s eyes.”

Louis almost punches him for making this about God, but stops himself, not wanting to make things even worse. Instead, he wraps his arms timidly around Harry’s waist and hugs back, breathing against his shoulder. It should not make him feel as safe as it does, but it helps more than anything else could, so when Harry tries to pull away, Louis only grips him tighter, not wanting to let go. Louis thinks he hears Harry whisper something, but what it was, he never finds out. “ _You’re not worthless in my eyes_ ,” is what Harry says.

                “You said you wanted to talk, Lou. What about?” he asks after a moment, audibly, rubbing small circles against Louis’ back.  
                “I wanted to tell you why I’m,” –Louis backs away from Harry enough to look at him- “Sad, you could say.”

They walk to the living room, and Harry takes the cup of tea for Louis and sets it down on the table in front of the couch, where Louis has already sat down, and sits down next to him. Louis looks at him and smiles wistfully, laying his hands on his lap, trying to hide the fact they are still shaking.

                “It’s not a very long story, actually,” he says.  
That is not entirely true, but he doesn’t think he wants to go into details about the thing, so he decides to start off small.  
                “As you may have figured, I’m gay,” he begins, looking Harry deep in the eyes, searching for any sort of disappointment or umbrage, only to find nothing but compassion.  
                “You see, before moving here, I dated this guy, who was- I don’t even know what to call him, but just, not a very nice guy.”

Harry’s eyes widen the fraction of an inch, and Louis corrects himself quickly, not wanting Harry to misunderstand him.  
                “And don’t get me wrong! He was nice alright with me!” he says, “He was just, like, a criminal, I guess.”

And then, after having spent years hiding away his past, Louis tells Harry everything. He talks about his relationship with the man, how at first it had been lovely - dates and hanging out and meeting friends, until they had got closer, and he suggested Louis move in with him.

And because he had been nineteen, and thought he was in love, he had moved in with the guy. But still, nothing seemed off, until Louis realised the guy had been slowly, almost unnoticeably, cutting him off from the world. Telling him to stop going out so much, even though he just went out with his friends, once a week at the most, interrupting him when he was on the phone with his family, and most importantly, always wanting to know where Louis was, precisely.

Louis makes a pause, trying not to remember the eeriness he had felt, when it first started, too well, trying to distance himself from it.

Then, one day, Louis had found a gun hidden in his things, and freaked out, because why would he have a gun? And when he had told his boyfriend, he had been told he should not have been looking through his things. Louis had explained, of course, that he had just been organizing the drawers, but he would have none of it, and when Louis had dared ask him once more, why he had a _gun,_ the guy had slapped him.

Louis closes his eyes for a second after saying that, before opening them again, small, glistening tears slipping from his eyes.

He had apologised immediately, and Louis had forgiven him, but he had really begun to doubt if he loved the man; and if so, if he wanted to love him.

And then, weeks later, they had been home together, watching the television, when he had got a phone call, and a serious one, it turned out, as just minutes in, he had been screaming down the line and swearing, and for a moment Louis had really thought he was going to break something, but just as suddenly as the call had come, it had finished. After another phone call and an anxious hour where his boyfriend had left with no explanation, he had come back and told Louis to pack a bag, with no explanation as to why or where they were going.

Louis had asked, of course, but he had just told him to shut up, and fearing a repetition of what had happened a few weeks ago, Louis had packed his things and let himself be driven to god knows where. He tells Harry, he still does not know where they had been to.

What had happened next was, they had entered a warehouse, Louis scared out of his mind, surrounded by burly, tall men, carrying guns and knives. When he had asked, despite having lost hope in finding any sense in any of this a while ago, he had been told to keep quiet and not do anything.

From there on, it had only got worse. All of a sudden, someone had dragged in people, tied up and looking like they had been tortured. Just about to ask someone, anyone, what the _bloody fuck_ was going on, he had heard a loud bang, and turning to look, he had seen a sight he will never be able to get out his head. His boyfriend, standing with a gun in his hand, and the people he had just seen dragged into the room, lying dead, shot, around him.

Louis’ crying again, the memories of the night flooding his head, tormenting him, keeping him from thinking straight. It is as if he can hear the final cries of the people, the way they had pleaded for mercy, but they’d been killed, brutally shot, anyway, and there had been nothing he could do about it.

When he looks up at Harry, he seems completely appalled, and Louis has to remind himself it is because of what he is telling him, not because of Louis himself.

Gathering himself, he goes on: later, he had asked his boyfriend, what the fuck had just happened, but he would not tell him anything, and he had started screaming again and Louis had been so scared he would hit him again that he had shut up.  
To this day, he does not know how he had done it, but some hours later, when his boyfriend was fast asleep, he had got out of bed, put his clothes on and just left the building. His boyfriend’s car had been there and Louis had just recently learned to drive, so without thinking much, he had simply sat in the car and driven. As aforementioned, he hadn’t even known where they had been, but they had been surprisingly close to a large freeway, so Louis had just followed cars until he had driven back into the city.

He takes a deep breath, and looks at Harry again. His eyes are worried now, rather than disgusted like they had been before, and when Louis keeps staring at him, tears ceaselessly rolling down his cheeks, Harry inches closer, encouraging Louis.

                “I went to the police office,” he says.  
He had gone to the police office, and told them absolutely everything. Turned out his boyfriend had been wanted for years, and the name Louis had known him by had been one of his countless fake names. Later, when he had come to grips with the shock of witnessing multiple murders and being pretty much kidnapped without even realising it, he had felt so utterly, devastatingly betrayed, that on its own it would have been enough of a shock to mess him up for good.

He takes another sip of tea, still warm on his tongue, and for the first time, smiles. Looking at Harry, he smiles, having no idea why. There is absolutely nothing so smile about, but he feels so much better, knowing Harry knows.

                “So I’m under witness protection,” he finally finishes with his story.  
He had had to get his last name changed and everything, he tells Harry, and he only gets to talk to his family if they phone him from a booth, and can’t have any credit or debit cards for the next ten years. Of course, that is why he lives in Affick, too, because it is such a small, safe town.

After another few moments spent in silence, Louis looks Harry deeply in the eyes.  
                “You and my Mum are the only people who know this,” he says.

For a moment, he falls back into the story, reminiscing how he had not even gone to court. The police had deemed it too dangerous, they had just used recordings of his testimony. And later, one of the officers had told him his boyfriend had promised, that if he ever were to find Louis he would-

Louis cannot finish the sentence. Instead, he smirks, knowing the man was sentenced for life, for all the things he had done, but he keeps that to himself.

Harry opens his mouth after Louis has kept quiet for a while, not knowing what to say, but finding it an appropriate time to do so, anyway.  
                “That’s- I’m glad you told me,” he tells Louis, holding back from reaching out to him, “Not that you had to tell someone, I’m just glad you chose me it’s-” he wants to say he’s happy Louis trusts him, but for some reason, he feels like that would be too much.

Louis smiles at him, his eyes glossy with tears, but Harry, hoping he is not just seeing things, sees another kind of a gloss there – one that tells him it can only get better from there on.

                “What happens now?” Louis suddenly whispers. Harry shrugs monetarily and leans closer, side-eyeing the room as if checking no one can hear them.  
                “Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve no idea.”

Louis’ smile grows, and he nods slowly, praising Harry for going along with the joke.  
Harry thinks he feels some kind of a disturbance in it, but he decides to ignore it, knowing it will pass soon. It is there, after all, only because their change of mood and topic had been so sudden.

                “I should go home,” Louis says. Harry agrees with him, actually. He’s tired, and Louis is, too, it is visible.

Louis leaves quickly, wordlessly, except for a smile and a quiet “thank you”, before stepping outside.

Once he’s gone, Harry goes to bed, lying awake for a while. Now, being one of the only people to know Louis wholly, he feels an even bigger need for him. It’s almost unbearable, the want to hold him and kiss away his tears and just be with him. Wake up, next to him each morning, and love him and be able to tell people they are together, be able to be proud of them.

That night, just before he falls asleep, he decides he is going to tell Louis. He has to.

 

 

They’re at Harry’s place again, two weeks or so later, Louis reading a book and Harry reading the newspaper. Harry peers over the edge of the paper, at Louis, every once in a while, his feet tucked beside his body on the sofa, his mind lost in the book. His hair has fallen over his eyes, but Harry can see his mouth, curved in a slight smile. He wants to kiss that smile.

                “I think I should tell you something, Louis,” he speaks up, then, feeling unsure of himself like he never has before. Louis raises his eyes from his book and smiles at him expectantly. Harry takes his time folding together the newspaper, then puts it down on the coffee table and stands up, walking up to Louis. He opens his mouth, his fingers stretched, but cramped beside his body.  
                “I- This is going to sound odd, but bear with me, please?”  
Louis smiles further, his teeth exposing.  
                “It’s alright, Harry,” he says, “you can tell me anything, you know that.”

Harry stares at him, wistful, for a moment, but turns around swiftly and sits back down in his chair, only to stand up and walk to the corner of the room. He frowns, his eyes trained to his feet.  
                “Most people would say that this is not,” -he makes an awkward pause-, “right.”  
He travels his gaze up Louis’ body until he meets his eyes, and almost looks away again, when he sees how worried Louis seems, but manages to keep his gaze on him.  
                “You see,” -he steps an inch closer, fiddling with his shirt, straightening his back and crouching again, every once in a while-, “I care about you, deeply. I feel as if I need you, and I just- I feel lonely when we’re not together and I wish we could be together all the time.”

He gazes about the room, trying desperately to look anywhere but at Louis, who is sitting at the table, smiling ruefully. The silence drags for a while, until Louis stands up and steps closer, resting his hands on Harry’s shoulders. They’re small and veiny and Harry wants to hold them for the rest of his life, maybe.  
                “What are you saying, Harry?” he breathes, the frown between his eyebrows so deep it could leave wrinkles.  
                “I’m saying, that-” Harry cuts himself off to look at the ceiling for a split-second, then back at Louis again. “That I love you, Louis. Not as a friend or a brother, no, I- love you.”  
The sentence comes out rushed and Harry wishes he could say it again, say it better, someway.  
Louis’ mouth falls the tiniest bit open and Harry blinks slowly, hoping he is not going to cry.  
                “I’m _in love_ with you, Louis. And, I don’t even care if it’s wrong, I think. I need you, and I need you to need me.”

A long while goes past, or at least that is how Harry feels, but suddenly Louis smiles, and standing up on the tips of his toes and presses his lips lightly against Harry’s. He keeps them there, pursing them closer after a while and pecking his mouth properly, and pulls away.  
                “How stupid we are,” is all he says, wrapping his arms around Harry’s neck and holding onto him tightly. Harry stands, in awe, for a second, before wrapping his arms around Louis’ body and pulling him closer.  
                “Does that mean?” he asks, still unsure.  
Louis laughs and presses a kiss to Harry’s neck, where his face is pressed against him.  
                “It means I love you too, idiot,” he responds, words muffled against Harry’s skin.

Harry sighs deeply, feeling a heavy load lift off his shoulders, and holds Louis close. He remains draped over Harry for a while, his face hidden in his shoulder, and therefore misses it, when Harry looks up, at the ceiling, seemingly, and mouths a thank you, before pressing his face into Louis’ hair.

He does let go after a while, only to smile at Harry for a completely unnecessary amount of time and kiss him once more. When Louis pulls away this time, he stares at Harry some more, who very gladly stares back, rubbing his thumbs into Louis’ skin through his t-shirt.  
                “This is very strange,” Louis mumbles.  
                “I agree,” Harry replies after a moment, a grin threatening to erupt on his face.

They stare each other for just a second longer, before bursting out laughing. Louis’ eyes crinkle and he covers his mouth with his palm, making Harry smile out of endearment for him _while_ laughing.

He sits down on the sofa, where Louis had been sitting before, and looks up at Louis, the smile on his face glued on permanently. Louis sits down next to him, his legs tucked under his body as before, gingerly laying his hands on his lap and smiling at Harry.  
                “What do we do now?” Harry asks in a small voice. Louis thinks he sounds frightened.  
                “You have been in a relationship before, right?” he asks, stunned. When Harry nods warily, Louis realises what he just said.  
                “Not that we are in a relationship now!” he almost yells, holding out his open hand, shaking it towards Harry. “Unless you want to, of course,” he adds, finally settling back in his seat. He had not even noticed he had burst up onto his knees on the sofa.

Harry isn’t exactly smiling, and that worries Louis, but his eyes are happy. They seem to twinkle, in fact, in the dim lights of the room. He opens his mouth, the corners tilted up, allowing Louis to breathe a little easier, but closes it again and frowns. Louis’ heart falls to the heels of his feet.

                “People will talk,” comes out of Harry’s mouth, in a strangely grave voice. His cheeks are just slightly white and Louis thinks he’s not breathing, but then he shrugs and turns back to normal. “Then again, they talk about everything.”

That’s a bit of a shocker, even for Louis. The longer he looks at Harry the better he sees it - in his robe, speaking from the altar about God, and preaching about Jesus. He always mentions equality, and has even explicitly talked about his support for the LGBT community, but?

                “So you don’t have a problem with it?” he asks, wide-eyed, “You’re not gonna be like, ‘Oh no, have mercy, I’ve sinned’?”  
Harry pulls a face at him, and any other time, Louis would slap him and call him a frog.  
                “What problem?” Harry responds, shrugging “I don’t see any problems. You knew I always wanted to get married.”

Louis’ mouth gapes for a moment, and he almost calls _himself_ a frog, but instead, cradles Harry’s face into his hands, staring at him deeply.  
                “I’m a man _, Brother Styles_. I mean, I sound like a girl sometimes, but I’m pretty sure I have a dick in my pants! Which makes us gay, dear; homosexual.”

Harry winces slightly and leans back against the armrest of the couch.  
                “You don’t have to be so vulgar about it! What does it change if we’re gay? I’ve always known I’m gay,” -he makes a pause, looking into the distance and raising his finger jokingly- “Not sure, actually, I did like girls back in middle school, but that could have very easily been a mass craze.”

Louis looks at Harry for at least a minute straight, staring wordlessly. Then, he grins, and without even trying to stop himself he stumbles back onto his knees, still on the sofa, and looks up at the ceiling.

                “What are you doing, God!?” he yells.  
Harry giggles soundlessly, hiding his face in his hands. He cannot believe this is his life.  
                “I’m afraid he isn’t going to come down and talk to us, like in The Simpsons. What do you mean, though?”

Louis sits back down again, on top of his legs, still, and shakes his head, face red and unbelieving.  
                “You’re going to be a Father, and you’re gay, and we are sort of dating now, and this is just a very strange dream and I am gonna wake up, and run to your place and we’re going to laugh about it, ri _ight?”_ his voice rises about an octave in the end, eyes widening until they look, and feel, like they’re about to pop out of their sockets.

                “No _ooo?”_ Harry mimics Louis voice, earning an eye-roll. “But really, this is no big deal, Louis,” he goes on, “We’re young people, so, you know. You’ve got stop worrying your little head off!” He pinches Louis’ cheek and inches closer to him, keeping his arm around his shoulder tightly, so Louis can’t help but fall against his chest a little.  
                “It doesn’t suit you, worrying,” Harry finally finishes.

Louis gives him a look, his lips pursed tight and a single eyebrow high on his forehead. He doesn’t say anything though, only shrugs after a while, and rests his head on Harry’s shoulder.  
                “You’re mad, did you know that?” he asks.  
Harry smiles slowly, running his hand down Louis’ side, unable to stop himself now that he is allowed to, “I could quote _Alice In Wonderland_ to that.”  
Louis turns around a little, pushing his face into Harry’s neck, giggling.  
                “So could I,” he mumbles.

Harry laughs too, at that, throwing his head back, squeezing Louis’ arm where his palm touches it. Louis lifts his head to look at Harry, who, his head still resting on the top of the sofa, turns his head to look at Louis, as well.  
                “So we’re together now?” Harry asks, but it is more of a statement than a question. Louis smiles shrewdly, licking his lips.  
                “Do you want us to be?”  
Harry closes his eyes for a moment and inhales so deeply his nostrils inflate, making Louis snort out a laugh through his nose.  
                “Do you even have any idea how much I do?” Harry says then, opening his eyes.  
                “People will talk,” Louis speaks in a low voice, mocking Harry, from before.  
                “Then again, they talk about everything,” Harry repeats himself, before leaning closer to Louis and planting his lips on his. The kiss is short, barely more than a peck, but it’s everything Harry could ask for, now, and it’s everything he is asking for.

                “So we fell in love,” Louis whispers when Harry’s leaned back again.  
                “Yeah.”  
                “What a sin.”

Harry wouldn’t be Harry, if he didn’t laugh at that so hard he cried.

**Author's Note:**

> feedback is really nice and great, much love!!  
> xxx  
> [Tumblr](http://guccifloral.tumblr.com/)


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